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4. The Shadows of a Heart Divided

On the roof of the cathedral, Tabitha and Galatea sit on chairs set on the edge that overlooks Rabona's gate and fields beyond. Tabitha has her eyes closed and she reaches out her will across the rolling hills to find spikes of energy. Yoki doesn't have a color or a shape, but if Tabitha were to describe it she would call it yellow. A warrior's is a whitened yellow, like lightning striking across the sky. Youma are sickly yellow turned pale green. And awakened beings are a yellow tarnished by crimson drops. It's not at all accurate, of course, but it's the closest way she can think for someone else to understand.

She sees the three lightning-colored spikes beyond the northern border as Galatea had instructed her to do. They've recently engaged in a fight, but nothing especially trying. Perhaps just a few youma plaguing a nearby town.

"See if you can shift them by half a degree north," Galatea tells her.

Tabitha opens her eyes to look at her and asks, "Is that even possible from this distance without releasing my yoki?"

"They're only a few hundred feet away," Galatea tells her. "And it would be miniscule, just an adjustment in the toe of the leader."

In just a moment, Tabitha can feel the small change in the directory of the one who leads them. As Galatea said, it's a small angling of her foot, but it changes their trajectory substantially. They don't seem to have a specific destination in mind, so they don't fix the deviation, and Tabitha projects that by night fall, they'll end up miles north than where they would have originally camped.

That's a terrible ability to have, Tabitha knows, the underhanded manipulation of another, but it is one she wants so badly to wield.

"They probably will never know anyone adjusted their course," Tabitha says, turning her face back toward the crowded conifer forest the party has entered.

"I doubt it'll be difficult for you to learn before the day is out," Galatea says and leans back against the chair. "You can already predict intention, so you can figure out trajectory. Where a hit will land, where a traveling party will camp. Manipulation is only a matter of subtle suggestion made before the other party actually moves."

"Is this what you were trying to teach the captain that night by the stream?" Tabitha asks her. "How to defend herself against that?"

"I think leaders should be well equipped to handle most things. They can't ask for your trust otherwise."

Tabitha is quiet for a moment and the noon day sun beats heavy on them from above. There isn't a cloud out today and the color of the sky is washed out from the lack of rain. She'd heard a few farmers earlier complain about thirsty crops. Agriculture is not something she understands, so she thinks little of weather patterns unless it promises disastrous effects on a campaign. Since the north, however, Tabitha has never once thought any campaign could possibly be disastrous. Not even taking on the Organization head on.

She thinks of how Miria stressed over how to save as many of the twenty-four sent to Alfons, how she came up with something fair and brilliant. That was the moment Tabitha trusted Miria completely. The moment Miria hated that she had only managed to save seven, however? That was the moment Tabitha's loyalty became forever bound.

"I would place my trust in the captain regardless," she tells Galatea with unwavering conviction.

Galatea laughs at this and drapes an arm along the back of her chair. "She really should be flattered to have your unconditional faith. How humorous, really. Miria, the most mistrustful of others, but the most trusted as well."

"The captain is not mistrustful." Tabitha says. "Well, maybe of you, but not of us."

Galatea is smiling to herself. "You think that because of the years you spent together up north? If anything, she's even more mistrustful because of that."

Tabitha stands to walk away because she cannot stand hearing someone say untrue things about Miria. She tells herself she would do the same for any of the others as well. The seven of them only work if they can trust each other. Galatea lets her take a few steps before she calls after her.

"I didn't say it with intentions to drive you apart," she says. "She cares too much and that care keeps her from trusting you to survive without her help. It means your affinity for her is not unrequited."

Tabitha pauses and glances over her shoulder at her. This is something she has noticed about Galatea. She often says things point blank but does not offer her personal thoughts to buffer the words. It's so easy to grow angry with her because what she says so often drives at what lies within your heart. Tabitha wonders if this is a skill Galatea has always had or if it's something she's acquired here in Rabona. She doesn't ask though because there is another question that is more important.

"Can you teach me that?" she asks. "To read a heart like that?"

Galatea is getting out of the habit of turning her face to someone speaking, but when she does, like now, it only serves as a spooky reminder that her eyes are gone. The breeze pushes her hair from her shoulders and she smiles.

"It's not really reading a heart," she says and then turns to face the breeze. "It's more like seeing the source of the energy and making educated guesses. Concerning Miria, it's easy to guess you."

Tabitha comes back around to look at her, an eyebrow arching on her forehead. Below them the shouts of villagers as they go about their day raise in the dry air.

"It's cheating pretending that's a real technique then," she says and then steps on her toes to glance over the edge of the roof at a man and his son carrying a ladder on their shoulders. They are struggling to keep the ends of the ladder under control amongst the hustle and bustle. The son is losing grip on the heavy ladder.

"How is it cheating? I'm still using an ability. I'm just coupling it with a brain."

A woman with a basket of fruit is making her way down, struggling beneath the heavy load. She must be new to peddling and unused to children because those skinny arms lack the strength to carry anything over two pounds for a significant duration of time.

"You're pretty good about pointing out the subtleties of everything, aren't you?" Tabitha asks.

"Subtlety is something I don't think you should underestimate."

Tabitha sees the rock the woman avoids but persuades her toe to knock against it anyway. An apple tumbles from the pile of fruit to the dirt below and the woman sets the basket down to retrieve it. The son loses grip on the ladder and it falls from his shoulder and topples over just a few feet in front of where the woman had set her basket. It should have fallen on her if she hadn't stopped. Tabitha opens her eyes to watch the aftermath. It starts with a string of apologies from the son to the woman. There is some laughter between the three of them, some light flirtation between the young woman and the son and the father buys two apples from her.

"Not bad," Galatea says from her seat. She crosses one leg over her knee. "Way to save the day and spark a romance all from your lofty little perch. You're a quick study, but we should work on getting you to open your eyes."

Tabitha sits back in her chair. "How did you know I close my eyes?"

"You're very still when exerting your will. Most people with sight do that when they're eyes are closed," Galatea says. "I used to do that. Shall we use a blind fold tomorrow?"

If Miria were to be honest, she would say that the only good thing about Clarice as a warrior is the fact that she can run. She doesn't quite have the stamina and endurance to keep at it, but she's a fast sprinter. If she could only point her toes toward a target instead of away from one. Warriors like her happen often actually. Every orphaned girl is sent east to the Organization, but not every girl has the heart of a warrior. The ones who don't usually don't survive the last training day when the Organization sets upon them a youma. Clarice probably had strong sisters in her generation.

She is watching Clarice struggle with a clingy Miata, trying to get her to sit on the outside of the circle of children surrounding Father Vincent as he introduces the puppet play they're about to see. It takes some debating finesse but Miata finally obediently sits and Clarice joins Miria at a far table.

"What's the point of having her sit through this?" Miria asks her when Clarice wipes her brow and shakes out her limbs.

"I thought since she has the mind of a child, I could teach her like a child. Maybe grow her mind up a little bit, so to speak," Clarice says and then laughs at herself. "Stupid, I guess, but I don't know what else to do with her."

Miria takes in the humorous image of Miata, four years older in appearance than the children around her. She hadn't thought of dealing with her as if she actually were a child. Her training can't forget the fact that if Miata wants, she can slay every person in this room in an instant, but Clarice, whose transformation somehow didn't take completely, sees things so much differently.

"Tell me, Clarice," Miria says. "What were you thinking about when you took in the flesh of a youma? Revenge or survival?"

"Neither." Clarice scratches fingers beneath her light colored hair. "I was thinking about the poor girl after me who'd have to go through this scary thing all alone. She was terrified, you see. Reminded me of my little sister."

Miria pauses. She had never heard that answer before. Before the transformation, the Organization prepares the mind of a young girl. They remind her of her family, of the people she'd lost, and they tell her to focus and endure the procedure for them. She's not sure which one Clarice would be, offensive or defensive, if she wasn't thinking of either, though. Maybe that's why the color hasn't drained from her hair completely. She's somewhere in between.

What's going on at the Organization, Miria wonders? What has garnered their interest that would result in a poorly produced product like Clarice but then assign her a number anyway?

Instead of watching the puppet play and laughing with the children, Miata has made a loose fist and is making odd maneuvers in the air. She watches her fist, adjusts her wrists, and then starts the air dance once more.

"Look at her. What is she doing?" Clarice says with a frown. "Five minutes in and she's already bored out of her mind."

"She's practicing her form," Miria says and then nods toward her. "Imagine she holds a claymore."

Clarice turns back to Miata and then her eyebrows furrow as she finally sees it and her eyes widen with the thought. That's it, Miria thinks. That's the thing with Clarice. She doesn't see things like a warrior. She still sees things like a human. She neither thought of revenge or survival. She thought of empathy. Finally, something Miria can work with.

Galatea tosses a towel to Tabitha and says, "Take a break."

Tabitha breaks her concentration and leans forward in her chair, stretching out her back. She scrunches her face and wipes her brow with the towel. Galatea has shown her that everyone has a leak in their fronts, a small bit of their true face that stays consistent. She calls it a spirit thread and it leads through everything else of a person to their inner source of energy. The problem here is that Galatea knows how to make decoy threads to throw her off. There's a pressure building between her eyes and Tabitha lets herself lean back against the chair, presses her fingers to her forehead.

"So the Organization taught you to read hearts? Seems a dangerous thing to teach if they want us to be naïve like you and the captain say."

The heat of the afternoon is starting to pick up, but the two of them are oblivious to it. Galatea's voice echoes in the hollow left behind when the breeze died. Tabitha cracks an eye and peeks her way.

"The Organization taught me to conceal my heart out of wariness," Galatea says. "Humans taught me to read out of necessity. Seven years is a long time."

Tabitha finds that an odd thing to say. They don't age, not like a human, and time passes quickly for them. They complete a job in a village one year and the next job in the same village later could yield completely new faces, transformed by age or legacy. She has never heard a warrior speak like this, like the weight of time was a force that could be felt.

Then Tabitha feels it, the thread of spirit that leads to Galatea's heart, but all she finds is a jumble of emotions that contradict each other. Belonging and isolation. Peace and turbulence. Pride and humility. That's all she can sample before Galatea snaps her back out and her laughter fills the silence that has fallen between them.

"Clever, clever. So now that you've seen a glimpse, how about making an educated guess?"

Tabitha chews on her thoughts for a moment and thinks about what she knows about Galatea. A former number three in the Organization. The other warriors always called the ones ranked five and above the most obedient soldiers. She recalls that conversation about Galatea knowing too much and becoming a danger. But then she's been here, in Rabona, this whole time. Seven years is a long time.

When she speaks, Tabitha's words are laced with a sorrow. "You have a conflicted soul. You're not anything at all right now, are you? Not human, not warrior. Just something in between."

"Ah, but I am free," Galatea says. "I am free to become anything I choose, so spare me the pity."

Tabitha frowns. "The captain says as long as the Organization exists, they can hunt us any time."

"Naturally."

"Then you really aren't free."

That earns her a chuckle.

"You haven't spoken to many deserters, have you?" Galatea asks and Tabitha shakes her head and confirms her suspicions. "Before the Organization cast me as their Eye, my skill at yoki reading was used to hunt down deserters and take their heads. And every deserter had one thing in common."

"What was that?"

There are a few shrieks from some children finally let out of afternoon lessons and they're shouts fill the streets with the pounding of their feet against the packed earth. Tabitha finds the hustle of the city unnerving at times. So loud, so noisy. It makes it difficult to concentrate sometimes. She much rather would be out there, beyond the walls, with her feet planted firmly on rich soil. She tries to tune it all out and narrow her focus to this roof only.

Galatea has taken her time to scratch along the side of her neck, head tilted to the side like a lazy cat.

She says, "You come to accept that any day a warrior is going to walk over the next hill to kill you. It stops being about wanting to stay alive. It starts being about making your desertion count for something. For Miria, it's to snuff out the source of all the problems. For you, I would guess that it's the bonds you made with everyone."

Now Tabitha understands where her reading of Galatea was off. She is a former human and she is a former warrior and there is a constant push and pull with these two things, a dance of persuasions thrown off balance by the arrival of seven ghosts and two deserters. This conflict of Galatea's separating selves is not at all the cast of her heart because both sides of her agree on one thing.

"Then for you, it's this town," Tabitha says, glancing over her shoulder to see that Galatea's smile has retreated into a solemnity she feels is rare and precious.

"Good job," Galatea says, "Let's try again."

By evening, Tabitha is walking through the streets of Rabona, watching as peddlers close up their carts and stow away their merchandise for safe keeping. She sees an old woman smiling and follows the spirit thread only to find that the woman is in terrible pain with her bones grinding against each other. Odd, Tabitha thinks. In the distance she picks up the signature of two heated human auras and she rounds the corner to get a better look. It's a husband and a wife shouting at each other over burned dinner, so angry and exasperated, but she can feel the love and loneliness inside them. It seems no one in this town is honest.

Tabitha makes her way to the soldier's training academy on the other end of town. She passes by a few of the soldiers who nod her way but doesn't acknowledge them. The last time she spoke with one, his face turned bright red and he turned away and mumbled something about not having the authority to answer her question. Since then, she's been wary of soldiers. Only a handful of them seem to be intelligent.

In the training room, Miria and Clarice both stand with their claymores drawn. It looks like Miata has been told to sit on the sidelines and she isn't happy at all about it. Tabitha hangs back in the shadows of the doorway, not wanting to distract from whatever Miria is trying to do with Clarice.

"Come on, Clarice," Miria says. "Why the high guard?"

Clarice is panting and her sword is starting to look heavy in her hands. She raises it high behind her head for a strike from below and shouts, trying to get her voice over the loud clang of metal against metal. Miria blocks the attack and then counters.

"To protect our heads on the battlefield," Clarice says and swings her sword around in an arc over her head and brings it down to Miria's knee.

"What is a battlefield?" Miria sidesteps her blade with such laughable ease and knocks her it away.

Clarice winces as the momentum clearly overpowers her own. "A battlefield is a hostile environment that extends in all directions at once, above, below, in front and behind."

Tabitha is not sure how long this has been going one, but she watches with near awe. For the next few minutes, Miria drills both technique and reason into Clarice making her move in every direction and never letting her feet stand still for too long.

"Which fingers control the movement of the blade?"

"The bottom two."

"Why?"

"Because the weight on the end is the counter balance." Clarice just barely catches the oncoming blade in time and uses her own to glide down the length of it toward the center of Miria's chest. Her aim was good, but she just isn't fast enough. "And we need to control the counter balance for accuracy and power."

Tabitha is surprised Miata hasn't moved to defend Clarice. Maybe the girl understands that this is only a training session. She tries to get a good read on Miata, but the girl shuts her out, eyes snapping her way. Miata is the most scary when her gaze tracks on you, but it is especially intimidating now since Tabitha can't get a clear reading at all. Just fuzzy sensations that burst and then disappear, half words, half emotions, none of them helpful.

Clarice's emotions are elevated. She's stressed and aggravated and Tabitha picks up confusion as well. But that's it. There's a desire to be better, but it feels fleeting. Mostly, the only substantial thing Tabitha can pick from Clarice's over excited wavelengths is a desire to just be good enough. Good enough to accomplish a task, good enough to deserve the reward, and good enough to continue living. Tabitha can't feel a strong sense of ambition though. Well, no wonder she's forty-seven.

Tabitha's eyes track to Miria who lands from an aerial attack and swipes her claymore at Clarice's feet. Clarice nearly cries out as she leaps.

"Evade, defend, attack, and follow through," Miria says to her. "Always those things."

Clarice remembers the claymore in her hand and then grips the hilt and brings it down. Tabitha watches a little longer, trying to gather the nerve to attempt to read Miria, but she doesn't. Somehow, it feels too much like an invasion of privacy. It feels too intimate for her to bear. Instead, she relaxes and then walks into the room, rounding the squared floor and coming to sit beside Miata.

"Mama's funny," Miata says to her.

"Yes, she is."

Tabitha watches Clarice scramble to her feet after her attack from above was deflected. Oh, she understands now. Miria is walking her step by step through the thoughts of a warrior in combat, building her up from the most rudimentary basic. Fighting is a skill like any other and for those like Clarice who have no natural talent in it at all, the best way to teach a skill is to start from the bottom and cover every element, no matter how common sense it seems.

Clarice staggers now and waves her arms in the air as she loses balance, but Miria is quick to reach out and grab her wrist to steady her.

"Good job," Miria says, pulling her back upright. "Will you remember all those things until tomorrow?"

"I think so." Clarice is trying to catch her breath, but nods. She stoops over and places her hands on her knees. "Oh, man. I'm going to hurt tonight."

Miata has her arms around her almost instantly and Clarice grunts at the sudden touch and the aches that result from it. Miria lets out a half smile and pushes hair from her face and Tabitha has that familiar clenching feeling that tells her she wants to fight beside Miria for the rest of her days. Miria catches Tabitha looking at her and then comes to sit beside her.

"How did it go today?" she asks.

Tabitha blinks and loosens the tightness in her chest. "It went well. I can get glimpses of people's hearts now. Enough to take educated guesses."

"That's great."

"Captain, do you trust us? Cynthia, Yuma, the others and me?"

At this, Miria glances at her, surprised. "Of course I do."

Tabitha is moved at the relief she feels at this and she doesn't want to know if it's not true. Questioning the truth of someone else's words is not trust, is it? In that training room where every sound echoes, she makes a promise to herself to never read Miria's heart, no matter how loudly she can hear it beating in her chest.

Continued...

Next chapter: Galatea and the imitations of life.

A/N: I will work on the suggestions left by my reviewers. Thank you for taking the time to leave them.